


Alexithymia

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Character's inner thoughts, Imagery, Implied RusAme, Kinda, M/M, Metaphors, Reflection, Romance, inner monologue, open-ended, style experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: Alexithymia: n. the inability to express one's feelings."Guess I just thought two wrongs could make a right."Alfred reflects on their relationship, their history, their present, their future, and everything in between.





	

I've often been asked to describe what makes us who we are.

Not who we are as people. Not what kind of food we like, or our favorite bird, color or song. Not our nations, what defines our countries, what defines us as thoughtful minds or beings of emotion. No, rather who we are, together.

And no matter how many times I try to come up with something I can answer to that, the best I can say is, _'we just... are'_. And then, right after that, I resist the urge to cringe, flinch at my words. Because that's not true. It's a lie, a big, fat, ugly lie that pokes its disgusting face every time I'm asked. We never have 'just been', never will 'just be', we don't 'just exist'.

It makes me laugh. Neither of us would be here if it were just that simple, 'just being'.

And even if I know this, no matter how I try I can never define us. Really, neither of us can be defined, so how could we both be defined, at the same time, as a unity?

Guess I just thought two wrongs could make a right.

Maybe we're just two wrongs. And then we don't make a right. When have we ever? And yet, we insist on being two wrongs, two mistakes, put together.

Not by some force of Fate - Fate would never allow something as terrible, as destructive as us, to come about - we could destroy Fate with one word, with one look, with one sigh. Not by some push of Destiny - if anything, we push against her ruthless pull, trying to tear us away from each other, because we ruin Destiny, we're slowly killing her, and everything she stands for. Not God, because he would loathe us - we play God, together as apart, and we do it only too well.

We weren't put together. We placed ourselves together. It's like we dug our graves together, next to each other, and now there they are, there they will be, and there we will remain. We'll end, both of us, someday, but even then Death cannot do what all else has failed to achieve.

We could rule hell if we wanted to. We already have the world, so aim for the stars, right?

And look at me now, I'm rambling again. Every time I think about us, I think about everything related and unrelated, and nothing makes sense any more. I get lost, in thought or in the world or my words, it doesn't matter - without you, I'm lost. But maybe it's because I think too big. I get lost, because I think about everything. Maybe I should think about the nothings. The little insignificant things we do, we say, we have, that just make us, _us_.

Where to start? The list is long, because we do these little things, these things we both love and hate and don't know what to do with them. It's like having those little trinkets around your house, the small, pointless knick-knacks that just lie around. And then, when you're cleaning, you have to dodge these whatnots and dust under them. They're in the way, but... they have sentimental value. You look at them and think 'why do I have this?' And you think about throwing it away. But the moment you take it off the shelf, the mantelpiece, and look back, it looks wrong. It looks empty, and there's that space where it had been, and you don't know what to put in its place. And you're holding it in your hand, and you look at it, and you remember the memory that goes with it. And before you know it, it's back on the shelf or the mantelpiece, and you hate it again because you don't need it. But there's that underlying need to hold on to it, to keep it where it is, because that's where it belongs - or it would leave your heart empty, it would leave it looking wrong, and you need the stupid, pointless trinkets to keep it whole and right.

That's the only right that's ever come out of us, isn't it?

But maybe what defines us isn't what our hearts look like, but what the trinkets that hold them in place are.

Maybe I can try to start understanding us.

And I look at my mantelpiece, and I see the useless, pointless nonsense I keep. And I wonder, why is it there? I know the answer, but I don't let myself _know_ it.

I think of the 3a.m. phone calls, when one of us is up ridiculously late, never mind the phone bill. When we forget to look at the clock, and before we know it, either I'm yawning and my head is dropping onto the pillow, or your words are becoming more and more meaningless and the silences in between sentences are longer. And the next day, I've forgotten how illogical my talk about space and the seventh dimension was, and you never remember comparing me to a bookshelf full of unread books. I can't remember what your point with that was, but I remember thinking it very pretty. I still do, and it's one of those things I don't even need to try and I can remember it. And then I also remember both of us designing the next generation rocket-ship - thank God we're not engineers. We'd be laughed at at NASA for our plan. I remember writing it down, and every time I look at the calculations, I can't help but laugh. I mean sure, converting two pounds of Fruit Loops into pure energy would probably be enough for a trip to the edge of the system and back, and it would be much more economic a plan than taking one million pounds of solid fuel per Space Shuttle, but I don't think astronauts would like the idea of relying on colorful cereals to make it alive. Hell, I don't like relying on Fruit Loops as breakfast. And then I remember you proposing to use vodka as the fuel, because it's as good a fuel as any, in your opinion. And I would spend ten minutes laughing, because I'm sleep-deprived or bored out of my mind, and I think at the moment it's the funniest thing I've ever heard. And maybe it is. It's so easy to forget to laugh, how to laugh, but around you I can never stop. And maybe that's good. For a moment, we're happy.

And then there's the looks. The secret messages we send each other. The silent glances fleeting across rooms. The mouthed words floating across a table. How we both know what I mean when I get that glint in my eye - the one you know doesn't bode well. And I know we both remember how well that dry ice experiment turned out, and how long I spent cursing my healthcare for being so expensive. And then there's that haze that shrouds your eyes when you get lost in thought during meetings - I never did figure out what it was you were thinking about. But I would sometimes just watch you, the way your eyes are watching, but never really looking at anything. Just clouded, purple eyes, distant and faraway. And I always wondered what it was that was in your mind, that you were so immersed in them - I liked to think it was me you were thinking about.

And then there were those looks that you'd sometimes get. When we'd go to a bar, hang out with other nations, and you would see someone chatting away with me - flirting or not, it didn't matter. You'd always get that look in your eyes, that possessive, jealous look. And even though every time I would tease you about it, it really just made me feel so... wanted. And then you would make sure to worship every bit of me, and those are nights I can't - won't - forget. Because you made sure to remind me how much you loved me. Every inch of me. And I absolutely loved it. And oh, remember those times when you would just blink at me like I'm mad, like I've lost my mind, when I had an idea that you thought absolutely insane? I found it hilarious.

My ideas were great, they were amazing, and then you'd just come along and confirm they were the idea of the century. Just because you would look at me that way meant that no-one had thought of it before. And then after I had executed my ideas, you'd wear that worried but smug look - it was a look only you could pull off. You'd fuss about me and whatever injury I'd earn myself, but then you'd also look so damn pleased because you got to tell me you'd told me so. And my glare, I remember how you used to both love and hate my glare. You'd find it funny in the right context, say I was adorable for trying to frighten you into getting away from me - but when I was downright mad, I remember you would... you...

I remember that one time we got into a full-blown shouting match - no, war. And I can't remember what it was we both said right before, but suddenly there was this icy silence. I actually felt it in my bones. It was crawling under my skin, freezing me from the inside. And I remember that look you gave me then - it wasn't hate, it wasn't love, it was anger and fear and hurt and disbelief and disgust and... and everything in between. I remember how calm you were, just picking up your coat, slipping your wallet into your pocket. Opening the door, and how softly it just... closed. And I had expected a slammed door, a last snarled insult, something - anything, but you didn't give any of it to me. And I was left alone, in a silent apartment, with a door that had shut so quietly I had barely heard it. It had just slid into place, clicking gently where it belonged. And I stood there, I even heard your car pull out of the parking lot, but I didn't go out to see you actually leaving. Where did you go? You never told me. All I remember afterwards is bits and pieces of the worst and loneliest twenty-four hours of my life. I don't remember eating or sleeping, just kind of numbly wandering around the apartment, doing nothing. Except staring at my phone, waiting for a call, wanting a call - needing a call. But none came.

And I was so worried - I was afraid, scared that this was it, this was the last straw, I had messed up for the last time, that you really were gone. And I... I started fearing your car had been run over, and that you might be dying in a hospital as a nameless John Doe, and God, I was so scared. But then - that loud, wall-shaking knock was so relieving, I was crying before I opened the door. You just stumbled in, grabbed me without a moment's break and kissed me - you kissed me breathless, and I was leaning into you as much as I could, trying to melt into your touch. And I remember how for the first time, I understood the relation between hurt and joy. Because with us, they both tend to come hand in hand.

Do you remember that one time a few years ago when we spent Christmas in Alaska? It was my idea, wasn't it? I remember you saying that there might be a snowstorm on its way right when we would get there, and whether we shouldn't just spend a warm winter in California instead. And then I insisted how weather was unpredictable and that what they said was probably wrong anyway, because I wanted to spend time in Alaska with you again, like we used to, before everything. It was... an experience. What with the electricity going out, my freaking out about how we were going to die, frozen to death, and how no-one knew where we even were, and, Jesus, I just remember your stare, it was like you couldn't believe you were spending time under the same roof as this idiot who freaked out over loss of electricity.

Remember what you did then? You just stalked up to the linen closet, and then our bedroom, and then the guest bedroom, and when you came back you just dumped every single damned blanket in the house on me. You didn't even say anything before scooping me up - along with all the blankets - and then dropping me onto the couch. I'm not sure how you managed to do that, I mean it took me five minutes to get out from under the mess of blankets; let alone start making sense of them enough to put them on me properly. But by the time I was settled under the mound of blankets, you'd gone and made a fire into the fire place. And how we both complained about the smell of burnt because I hadn't used that fireplace in so long that all the dust had just gathered up there. And then it did get colder inside the house, and you relented and came under the blankets. And then when I was mouthing off about it, just generally being obnoxious and annoying about it, you just started tickling me. I hated you tickling me, because that's my only weak spot. Well, apart from you. But what I wouldn't-

I'm trying to stay on track, follow my thoughts. I'm trying, but it's not easy.

And then there's the sweet, adorable, stupid gifts and presents. You'd just randomly up and decide to visit me, out of the blue, and show up on my door with a bunch of beautiful sunflowers in your hand. And that silly smile plastered on your face, the one that was smug and innocent at the same time - so self-satisfied as you watched me sputter in surprise and fire a million confused questions at you, and trying to hide the really obvious blush even I could feel, and yet so innocent because you saw how happy I was to have you with me, even if it were in the midst of a hellish week (especially if). And then you'd go and find the blue vase from my kitchen, the one that's always at the front right under the sink where you know you can find it, and then you put the sunflowers in it, and you place them right on the coffee table in front of the TV. And then you'd turn around, expectantly, and I would still be caught in between questions and mindless jabbering because I was just so happy to see you. I never would admit it though, I refused to, because I couldn't admit to myself I was happy to see you. I was too prideful, as so many people kept repeating to me. But you saw it. I know you saw my happiness, and you read right through me like your favorite book playing out in front of you. And I love it.

Had I been told, fifty years ago, how much I would come to rely and depend on you, I would have laughed in their face and probably nuked them too for saying such a ridiculous and preposterous thing. But I also know that by then I already lived for you, and only for you. It was you who drove me to that greatness I achieved, it was because of my inherent need to beat you that I became who I am. You, in a sense, made me. And back then, if you had left me, if you had disappeared, I was still so weak that I wouldn't have known what to do. I know now, that while I was powerful in a physical and economical and every other sense, I was emotionally crumbling and mentally stumbled across every single hurdle that came my way. And it was only because of you that I climbed over those hurdles. If you had gone, I would probably have left the world to fend for itself, because I would not have known what to do. How could I? My only friend, my greatest enemy, my only reason to live and to be, gone - what would I have left? But now, because we stood together so long, and step by step learnt everything about each other, we were taken closer and closer until we were nearly one and only one soul, person, nation. Of course, figuratively, because we were both too proud to actually relent and give up and give in to each other, but we both knew it. And I became mentally and emotionally stronger, thanks to you.

You made me whole. You helped me. You became part of me.

I never wanted to let that go.

And now I think about it, the one thing that really is the one thing that most makes us who we are, is the way we were to each other. It's those out-of-the-blue forehead kisses, that I would grumble about because I was too short to do that to you. When I would hurl myself onto your back, and you'd miraculously manage to keep your swaying balance. That one time when you hugged me from behind and I punched you in the nose, because I had been jumpy the entire month (but you hadn't heeded my warning - my five hundred warnings). It's the way you would sometimes stop and look at me, just from across a meeting room with that stupid smile on your face, or when we'd lay in bed and you'd brush a hair out of my face. How I would sometimes wake you with fresh, warm, homemade pancakes and you would make a jab at how you were surprise by my cooking skills (every single time, it was ridiculous). How I used to spam your email, your iChat, your Facebook messages, your Whatsapp and every other app I'd forced you to get when you were at work just to get your attention for five minutes.

It's the broken I love yous, shouted in between torn sheets or in the bathroom stalls of another nameless bar or whispered quietly amidst shattered furniture, accented by tears, because we never had been completely normal and perfect a pair. Never would be, and that's what made us who we were. Because neither of us was really capable of being in a perfectly healthy and acceptable relationship, both too damaged for those, too insane and broken. But we were so just the right amount for each other, and we reveled in it, lived off it, lived for it. And we accepted each other, because we saw so much of ourselves in each other. You saw yourself, given too much strength at a too young age. And I saw myself, years down the line when I've lived too long to remember individual years and days and my power has waned some and I can't find in me the interest the reclaim it.

But we found solace in each other, and that's what made us cling so desperately to each other, even in the face of the threat we posed on the world.

They've come back, you know? Those nights. Every night, each of them, all different, but similar in sorts. I used to kick and tear and claw at sheets when I slept, because memories resurfaced that I couldn't hold down but were too terrible for me to bear. I used to cry and scream through dreams, because they were too beautiful yet wrong to be called nightmares. And if you were still downstairs, had been watching TV or finishing a report or doing whatever, you'd just come in and just - grab me and hold me and almost crush me against you until I was left a poor, sobbing mess, before you would begin to stroke my hair, or run a finger up and down my back. And it was those gentle movements and soothing motions that calmed me, that slowly drove the nightmares away. I haven't had those since a long time, when you started chasing them away. And yeah, I do remember how you would do the same thing - except yours was silent, you would toss and turn and grip and clench and grind your teeth and gasp for breath, but it was always so quiet. But I would catch it, and I would start speaking. It never even mattered what it was that I said, but even whispered words would somehow calm you down, and you never remembered it in the morning - only if you woke up in the middle of a nightmare. You'd learnt to suffer in silence, I was still so young that I bled out loud, but we helped each other.

We spoke, we healed, we opened wounds and scars that were old, twisted and ugly, only to clean them properly and close them up again. And we did heal. We both began sleeping well. I didn't wear my tiredness to world meetings any more, and you no longer had sunken eyes that scared everyone. Really, maybe all we needed was someone to mend, and who mended in return. I hate to admit, loathe it really, but they're back once more, because you aren't here, and now I have new wounds, open ones that bleed too much, too fast, that I can't heal on my own. But we're the ones who caused them, and now because of that I can't heal, because you can't mend me. I'm broken because you broke me. But in a way, it was just as much my fault. But I'll wear that tiredness, and I'll have your sunken eyes, because it's really what I deserve. And even though the world may not recognize me any longer, and though the world may come to fear me for who I am without you. But everyone's always said that we weren't natural, that we didn't belong together, that we were better off without each other - the world was better off without us together. And maybe it's because together, we had the potential to be destructive, but alone or separated, we're bound to be destructive. And now I'm standing, abandoned, marooned and alone. Maybe that's why we really are just two wrongs put together.

We never felt right, but we never did feel wrong either. It was, in a sense, a balance - which is what we've always been about. And for just a moment, that balance worked. For just a moment, we met blow for blow. For just a moment, we stood, equal. Even when you stumbled, you never did fall like I expected you to. And so we kept each other in check, in line, merely bending the limits and testing the waters but never taking the dive into the deep, uncharted ocean. But when you're not here, who will I be able to rely on? Who can tell me when I'm being an idiot? Who will tell me what I can and cannot do? Who will tell me I've overstepped my boundaries, who will put me back in my place, who will rein in my arrogance and my self-righteousness and my delusions and my idealistic nightmares and my destructive healing, who? No-one, no-one but you has ever been able to, and no-one will ever be. And maybe that's why when _we_ no longer are, and Death finally greets me, it will not be with a handshake, but a glare of disgust. Maybe I will even face the Devil, and be met with a look of fear, hatred, or perhaps with applause. I fancy myself meeting God, even, if only for him to look at me, speechless at the unspeakable horrors I may and will commit. Or perhaps all religion will have been in vain, because no God nor Devil exists, and all I am left with is emptiness, a limbo, or perhaps an eternity of being haunted and of haunting, or perhaps I will be given another chance at life - but how can I say I deserve that? The only role I deserve would most likely be a Horseman of the Apocalypse. Ride alongside War, Pestilence, Famine and Death, as what? Fear? Power? Extinction? All vices I possess. Will I meet you? Where will you be? Standing beside me, or in front of me? Will we continue the same dance that's been here for centuries now, this constant moving back and forth? What will happen to us?

But I won't get that ahead of myself, I've probably still a lot of time left on this earth.

Now, when I look at my apartment, I see the places where we were, and the things we did, and the words we said. And I feel empty, hollow, lonely, because you're a thousand miles away - and you aren't coming back. Rightfully so, maybe. It was both our fault this happened, isn't it? All we ever wanted was more, and it finally became too much. And we're back to what we were, not so long ago. With those hissed insults, and those silent meetings, and those snarled arguments, and those remote informants in our countries, and that war for information, knowledge, a higher ground and vantage point. We've conquered space cut up and split the world, what can we do now? How far can we reach any more? Because even though deep down, I can feel the boiling hatred within me, and I know that you loathe me just as much, there are the days like these. The ones where I stop and think about us. They're not common. You always wondered why I was so fidgety, and refuse to stay in one place for a long time. Because silence, calm and quiet all drag me into my thoughts. And deeper, and deeper, until I'm gasping for breath in a sea of overwhelming thoughts. I guess it doesn't help, that I carry around all these stupid reminders of you. Did you know, that everywhere except when you're around, I wear my ring? My bosses never care enough to ask, because it's nation politics again and they don't understand it. Matthew knows, says it's not healthy (but when were we ever?). Arthur just kind of has grown to accept it, even though he shares Matt's view. Francis? Thinks that what we have is tragic and beautiful, but knows that I'm not helping myself either. Yao likes to make fun of me for it, says I'm a clingy and nostalgic youth who still has so much to learn. But I never wear it around you, because that would be too painfully obvious. And you once said my charm was how unpredictable I was - how impossible it was to figure me out.

But as I stand here, watching the sun set in a blaze of colors, I can't help but think that you're across the sea. My problem and my solution, all within my reach. But we both want more, and we've accepted that. Maybe we'll end up destroying each other, maybe one of us will come to our senses. Maybe neither will happen, and we'll live on this precarious balance, on the edge of the cliff, ready to tumble down but holding each other up. I can't say it's not breathtaking, exhilarating, amazing and terrifying at the same time. I always love the rush, the thrill, the adrenaline you give me. And I can't ignore you, me, this, everything, just because we've been pulled apart again - or we tore each other apart, does it make a difference any more?

As I stand here, I wonder what you're doing. Are you running around the Kremlin, meeting this important politician and writing that important report? Or are you doing the same as I am, idly wondering what the hell happened in this last year? I want to call you, ask you, but I can't, I won't. And I know you won't either.

And it's these things that make me wonder, what are we? Who are we? Why are we like this? How could either of us ever stand the other, beyond all stupid pride and bittersweet hate and gentle love and - and - everything else? How many times will we come together and fall apart before we learn? How many times will we break each other and mend and repair and tear each other apart? Is this why we never work out well? Is this why we can never stay together, settle in each other's arms, because we're too proud and too greedy and too hurt and broken and stitched up once too many and shattered beyond repair? We want too much, grasp too much, own and take and hold too much - in our hands and hearts and minds and steel grips? Why can't I ever answer the simplest questions?

And when I shout these question, fire them at the boundless ocean beyond which you lie, I receive no answer. And I'm angry, disappointed, furious, saddened, even if I knew nothing would come of it (like nothing ever came of us).

The questions I ask most remain still unanswered. And maybe I'll never have an answer, be it in life or in death. But I'm willing to wait and see, hopeful and cynical at the same time, clinging to desperate ideals of what we could have been while simultaneously doing all I can to distance you from me as much as possible. And you'll do the same. Because we are too similar and too different. And we know we're not going to change any time soon.

And so the world holds its breath once more, as we stand, opponents again, in the sour sunlight as in the cold moonlight. Who knows what reaches we will aim for this time? Will we cross the line? Will we bleed or heal? Hurt or help? Innovate or destroy? Both? Neither?

Will we -?

No, that's not right. Words are wrong. Semantics, you would call it, but I've always had the need and want to be specific. And now, it no longer is a question of will.

_Can_ we ever make it right?


End file.
